"Oh, you dear, dear papa, I'm so glad, so glad to know that you wouldn't have made me go back to that horrid music teacher! I felt sure at the time that you wouldn't, if you were here." He heard her with a look of astonishment not unmixed with sternness.
"O papa, please don't be angry with me!" she pleaded, tears starting to her eyes; "I didn't mean to listen, but I happened to be at the library door (I was going back to see if you were done writing that letter and I might be with you again) when you told Professor Manton that you wouldn't have sent me back to Signor Foresti, nor even to his school.

It made me so glad, papa, but I didn't stop to hear any more, but ran away to the veranda again; because I knew it wouldn't be right for me to listen to what wasn't intended for me to hear." He took her hand, led her into the library again, drew her to a seat upon his knee, and softly smoothing back the hair from her forehead, said in kind, fatherly tones, "I am not displeased with you, daughter.
I understand that it was quite accidental, and I am sure my little girl is entirely above the meanness of intentionally listening to what is evidently not meant for her ear.

And in fact, now that I think of it, I am not sorry that you know I did not, and do not now, approve of the treatment you received at that time.

Yet that was the first time I had ever mentioned it to any one, and I should be sorry to have your Grandpa Dinsmore know, or suspect, how entirely I disapproved of what he thought best to do at the time.

Can, and will, my little daughter promise to keep the secret?
never mentioning it to any one but me ?" "Yes, indeed, papa," she returned, looking up brightly into his face.
"Oh, it's nice to be trusted by you, and not even threatened with punishment if I disobey!" "I am happy to think that is by no means necessary," he said, drawing her into a closer embrace.